


Lucy Potter

by Lyn_Laine



Series: The Four Fem Harrys Project [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, F/M, Female Harry, Female Harry Potter, Floating Timeline, Ravenclaw Harry, Ravenclaw Harry Potter, Tom Riddle is Not Voldemort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-05 06:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyn_Laine/pseuds/Lyn_Laine
Summary: Four Fem Harrys. Four Houses. Some things change, and some things really don't. Lucy is the Ravenclaw Fem Harry. Fem Harry. Ravenclaw Harry. Part of the Four Fem Harrys Project. Harry Potter x Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle is Different from Voldemort.





	1. Lucy One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the plan.
> 
> I am going to write four Fem Harrys. Each one, for me, fits the perfect profile of a different Hogwarts house. Each will also have a different name, so readers can differentiate better. Based on their house profiling, they will each also have different wand woods and Patronuses. In all other respects, however, they will just be Harry. I will take that starting canvas and create further differences with it within the text itself. These girls will be similar yet dissimilar to the Harry that you know, and also similar yet dissimilar to each other.
> 
> I will make four different stories and rotate through chapters for each girl, telling her full story with her at the helm. I call this the Four Fem Harrys Project.
> 
> This document you're reading right now is the Ravenclaw Fem Harry.
> 
> Please note that this is a full canon rewrite. All canon information and unchanged aspects will be included. I will also be attempting to make the story as relatable and floating timeline as possible.
> 
> The final pairing for each girl will be Tom Riddle, different from Voldemort, partly because one of the only things all four girls will have in common is a connection to the same person - but in his younger human self, before some of the corruption and most of the crimes, I think the interest and potential changes would be far more pronounced.

_Lucy One_

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find their niece on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at all.

The sun rose over their expensive detached suburban home and their neat, colorful, homeowner's association style garden and flower beds. It glanced over their grand mahogany and stained glass front door with its carefully polished bronze number four, through their large living room window and their floor-length expensive curtains, and into their living room. The living room was made up of lots of less expensive fabrics and furnishings made to look incredibly expensive, from fireplace and armchairs to standing tables with vases and little glass tea-tables. Everything had a 'look but don't touch' aura, and with the aid of a subtly placed air freshener, the room with its perfectly clean carpets even smelled expensive.

Everything almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when Mr Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the photographs on the polished mantel piece really showed how much time had passed. Ten years ago there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a large pink beach ball wearing different colored bonnets. But Dudley Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother.

The room also held signs of a small, dark-haired girl. She was in a serious, formal family dinner party portrait on one wall, here playing the role of "perfect little daughter" and dressed rather like a mini Chanel. But she wasn't in many other places. In most other photographs, either she was playing and riding bikes with Dudley - the only one to include her - or she didn't exist at all.

The small, dark-haired girl was Lucy Potter, the Dursleys' niece, and she was asleep at the moment but not for long. Her Aunt Petunia was awake and her cry pierced the air like that of a particularly loud and obnoxious bird.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

Lucy woke with a start. Her aunt rapped on the door again.

"Up!" she screeched. Lucy curled up in her bed, eyes big from underneath the covers, and lay very still as she waited for her aunt to go away. At last, she heard Aunt Petunia sigh and heard her heels clack away. Lucy relaxed. Safe again. She sat up and scratched at the side of her head through her wild black hair, blinking peacefully at the far wall in the quiet early morning. She tried to remember the dream she had been having. It had been a good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. She had a funny feeling she'd had the same dream before.

Her aunt was back outside the door. "Are you up yet?" she demanded.

"Yes," Lucy lied automatically.

"Well get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don't you dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy's birthday."

Lucy gave a minute sigh and closed her eyes. That was right. Dudley was turning eleven today and he hadn't been able to swing letting her come along. Here came another day at Mrs Figg's.

"Are you listening to me?" her aunt demanded.

"Loud and clear," said Lucy flatly, annoyed, and she rolled out of bed as she heard her aunt's heels clack away up the stairs.

Lucy got slowly out of bed and started looking for socks. She found a pair under her bed and, after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Lucy was used to spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them and that was where she slept. It had been that way ever since she could remember - ever since she'd been orphaned as an infant and sent to live with her aunt and uncle, the Dursleys.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were strict, chore-heavy, and repressive. They never bought her nice clothes or things; sometimes they even bullied her. Everything nice she had was on the kindness of her cousin Dudley. Dudley was very spoiled by his adoring parents and a bit of a bully at school himself, getting into fights a lot that his parents turned a blissful blind eye to. But he took care of her as his smaller sister, and often used temper tantrums to get his own way with things, including when it came to her. He was in her class at school, so he kept her from being bullied, allowed her hobbies and school friends. He even paid for many of the clothes and things that she wanted. All of her hobbies, her cupboard decorations, her nice clothes - they were all him. He used some of the endless hoard of money his parents gave him on her. Sisters, he said, were there to be protected - including surrogate ones.

So her entire cupboard was a reflection of the things he bought her. A small and plain space, narrow and rectangular with a slanting ceiling and plain wood linings, it had a single bare light bulb and did sometimes carry spiders. Lucy constantly felt repressed, suffocated in there.

But she got to decorate it the way she liked, at least. She'd hung long, patterned, colorful sheets on the walls in lieu of window curtains. Fluorescent planets and stars were glued to the ceiling, so that it seemed she was always looking upward at the night sky. And she had a small collection of her most precious, treasured books between nice bookends on a high shelf.

Her cupboard itself was covered in piles of books, though. One of her favorite hobbies was reading, and she had books everywhere, all bought as presents by Dudley or her school friends. They spilled haphazardly all over the floor, mingled with the mess of clothes. Information was vital to Lucy. She had a particular interest in books on astrology, and one big midnight-blue astronomical star chart covered a cupboard wall. Lucy loved studies on the stars; she was fascinated by space.

She got dressed in what she liked best, there in the cupboard, and here again Dudley had played a great hand in what she had been able to purchase for herself. Lucy had naturally thick and wild shiny black hair, almond shaped bright green eyes, a thin friendly face, a tiny pixie-like body, dimpled knees, and glasses.

She also carried a thin scar on her forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning. It did make her rather self conscious, she'd had it as long as she could remember, and the first question she could ever remember asking her Aunt Petunia was how she had gotten it.

"In the car crash when your parents died," she had said, "and don't ask questions."

 _Don't ask questions_ \- that was the first rule for a quiet life with the Dursleys. It was very trying for Lucy in particular, because her ultimate goal was to accumulate as much knowledge as possible at all times - doing the smart thing and the wise thing was very important to her.

In clothing, some of her biggest points of interest were button-up blouses, high-waisted skirts and the shirts that tucked beneath them, bracelets that snagged on everything, soft fabrics, ballet flats with scuffs on the shoes, and stripes and polka dots.

She usually either wore her hair in a soft side braid or in a messy braided bun. Her glasses were slim, rectangular silver spectacles.

Put it all together and one had Lucy's look. The ever present glasses came first. One outfit could be a button-up blouse tucked underneath a high waisted skirt, snagging bracelets, scuffed ballet shoes, and a messy braided bun. Another outfit could be a soft loose expensive fabric polka dotted shirt, extra long, with a soft side braid she liked to run her hands over when she was thinking.

When she was ready for the day, she went downstairs and down the hall into the kitchen. It was a combined kitchen and dining room with gleaming marble tiling, expensive black accents, and a surprisingly modest wood table that really made the rest of the room seem that much fancier. Today the table was almost hidden beneath all Dudley's birthday presents. It looked as though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the second television and the racing bike.

Uncle Vernon entered the kitchen as Lucy was turning over the bacon. He looked her over, found nothing amiss, made a little harrumphing noise, and sat down to his morning newspaper, ignoring her. Being ignored by Uncle Vernon was usually Lucy's safest outcome, no matter how much she deep down disliked being ignored.

Uncle Vernon wore expensive black suits and boring ties, carefully tailored to be just slightly beyond his actual money bracket, and he carried the weight and ruddy face of a man in his forties who liked three helpings at every meal, his stay-at-home wife's puddings, and a pastry every day for lunch at the corporate office he drove to in his shiny expensive car. He had a thick black mustache, a receding hairline that made his temple look constantly angry, and he paid a great deal of attention to the news.

Aunt Petunia, whose main point of focus was gossip, looked very different. She had the same hideous but flowery taste in dresses that she did in vases. She wore chignons of hair, crinkling bracelets, and expensive perfumes, and she was a thin, blonde woman with bony elbows and almost unhealthily sunken cheeks.

Lucy was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his mother. Dudley wore ugly sweaters bought by his mother and was pudgy and pink-faced with smooth blond hair and small blue eyes. This had initially made him a target for bullying and he'd overcome this by taking up boxing and wrestling in addition to his video games, forming a gang, and taking them around to beat up anyone so much as looked at him funny.

This was somewhat morally reprehensible, but had been very effective.

Lucy put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult as there wasn't much room. As she often did, she remained neutral in expression and quiet and had retreated inside herself, falling into quirky little imaginings and daydreams as she sat down to eat. Dudley meanwhile was counting his presents. His face fell.

"Thirty-six," he said, looking up at his mother and father. "That's two less than last year."

"Darling, you haven't counted Auntie Marge's present, see, it's here, under this big one from Mummy and Daddy."

"All right, thirty-seven then," said Dudley, going red in the face. Lucy, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, quickly pulled her plate into her lap in case Dudley turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly, "And we'll buy you another _two_ presents while we're out today. How's that, popkin? _Two_ more presents. Is that all right?"

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. "Add the last part of the original number to two," Lucy finally offered cautiously.

"Seven… two… nine," Dudley realized, surprised. "Thirty-nine."

"That's right, sweetums," said Aunt Petunia, pleased.

"Oh." Dudley sat down heavily and grabbed the nearest parcel. "All right then."

Uncle Vernon chuckled.

"Little tyke wants his money's worth, just like his father. 'Atta boy, Dudley!" He ruffled Dudley's hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it while Lucy and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a video camera, a remote controlled aeroplane, sixteen new video games, and a movie player. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia came back from the telephone, looking both angry and worried.

"Bad news, Vernon," she said. "Mrs Figg's broken her leg. She can't take her." She jerked her head in Lucy's direction.

Dudley and Lucy exchanged a glance as Lucy's heart gave a leap of hope, her eyes widening slightly. Every year on Dudley's birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Unless Dudley could swing letting Lucy come along, every year Lucy was left behind with Mrs Figg, a mad old lady who lived two streets away. Mrs Figg's house always smelled like medicine and dust, was very dark and cluttered and covered in ugly afghans, and was crawling with very bad-tempered cats. Mrs Figg was obsessed with dead cat photographs.

Lucy always dreaded Dudley's birthdays, because they usually involved Mrs Figg. This year had been one of those years.

"Now what?" said Aunt Petunia, looking furiously at Lucy as though she'd planned this.

"Perhaps I could go visit a friend?" Lucy suggested airily, smiling whimsically.

"No. I'm not making some poor, unsuspecting family put up with you for an entire day," said Aunt Petunia rudely. Lucy's airiness faded. She ducked her head and a surly little frown formed on her features.

"We could phone Marge," Uncle Vernon suggested.

"Don't be silly, Vernon, she hates the girl."

The Dursleys often spoke about Lucy like this, as though she wasn't there - or rather, as though she was something very nasty that couldn't understand them, like a slug. Lucy hated this, but tried her best not to show it, as she did almost everything. Sharp-eyed caution was usually best.

So she fisted her hands in her lap, clenched her teeth, and remained coldly silent. Privately she wanted to stay at home, read and map star charts quirkily out in the open, but she didn't think the Dursleys were in that kind of mood. Lucy was an expert by now at reading moods.

"What about what's-her-name, your friend - Yvonne?"

"On vacation in Majorca," snapped Aunt Petunia. She seemed to be thinking hard. "I suppose we could take her to the zoo," she admitted slowly, "and leave her in the car…"

"That car's new, she's not sitting in it alone…"

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn't really crying - it had been years since he'd really cried - but he knew that if he screwed up his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

"Mummy, I want… her… to… come," he wailed between huge, pretend sobs.

The Dursleys were awful people, so Lucy didn't feel sorry for this bit of manipulation in the slightest. The Dursleys deserved everything they were getting.

"Oh, my sweet, sensitive, good-hearted little boy!" Aunt Petunia sighed, flinging her arms around him. Dudley shot Lucy a secretive, mischievous grin through the gap in his mother's arms. Lucy gave a shy little smile back.

Just then, the doorbell rang - "Oh, good Lord, they're here!" said Aunt Petunia frantically - and a moment later Dudley's best friend, Piers Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Completely different from the boy who held people's arms behind their backs while Dudley hit them on the playground, he now wore a friendly, open grin over his tan face. Piers was thin and nerdy, but a good sort, at least to Lucy. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Lucy was sitting in the dark leather seated back of the Dursleys' car with Piers and Dudley, smiling slightly and talking to Dudley and Piers in a soft, kind voice, her big green eyes shining. She was officially on the way to the zoo for the first time in her life. Her aunt and uncle hadn't been able to think of anything else to do with her, and anyway Dudley had asked.

But before they'd left, Uncle Vernon had taken Lucy aside into the living room.

"I'm warning you," he had said, putting his large purple face right up close to Lucy's as Lucy tensed, wide-eyed, and kept herself _very_ still, "I'm warning you now, girl - any funny business, anything at all - and you'll be in that cupboard from now until Christmas."

"... I won't do anything," said Lucy in a monotone voice, staring blankly at a spot over Uncle Vernon's shoulder. And at last, he let her go.

But he didn't believe her. No one ever did.

The problem was, strange things often happened around Lucy, and it was just no good telling the Dursleys she didn't make them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Lucy coming back from the barber's looking as though she hadn't been at all, equally tired of hearing Uncle Vernon complain about it, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors and cut Lucy's hair short she was almost bald except for her bangs, which her aunt left "to hide that horrible scar." Even Dudley hadn't been able to help teasing Lucy, and though he'd also promised to protect her, she'd spent a sleepless night in her cupboard sick with fear, dreading being laughed at in school the next day. Next morning, however, she'd gotten up to find her hair exactly as it had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off. She had been given a week in her cupboard for this, even though she had tried to explain that she _couldn't_ explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, back before Dudley and her school friends began buying her clothes, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force Lucy into a particular hideous and ugly greying secondhand dress. The harder she tried to pull it over Lucy's head, the smaller it seemed to become, until finally it might have fitted a hand puppet but certainly wouldn't fit Lucy. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to her great relief, Lucy wasn't punished.

On the other hand, she'd gotten into terrible trouble for that bullying incident two years ago. A much older and larger bully had cornered Lucy one day on the playground, and even as Dudley went to run over he'd _pushed_ her - and then the strangest thing had happened. He'd began running all over the play yard, screaming and pulling at his clothes. He'd gotten the sudden sensation that there were bugs crawling all over his skin. A very angry letter had been sent home from Lucy's headmistress. Lucy wasn't sure how she'd done that, either, but all she had been able to do was shout in distress at Uncle Vernon through the locked door of her cupboard.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. When she was having fun with Dudley and Piers, as it always was when doing her own hobbies or with her own friends, life was perfect.

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to complain about things. People at work, Lucy, the council, Lucy, the bank, and Lucy were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning, it was motorcycles.

"... roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums," he said, as a motorcycle overtook them.

Lucy carefully and cautiously said nothing about her flying motorcycle dream, and went back to talking with Dudley and Piers. If there was one thing the Dursleys hated even more than her asking questions, it was her talking about anything acting in a way it shouldn't, no matter if it was in a dream or even a cartoon. They seemed to think she might get dangerous ideas. Even reading was barely allowed because of Dudley, in Lucy's eyes the worst of their crimes.

Lack of curiosity and imagination was terrible.

It was a very sunny Saturday and the zoo was crowded with families; they swarmed toward the big gate entrance decorated with gigantic carved statues of animals. The Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the entrance, and when the smiling ice cream van lady's smile dropped as she watched Dudley try to pay for Lucy's ice cream, Uncle Vernon seemed deeply embarrassed and he ended up buying Lucy a small lemon sherbet twist ice cream. Reluctantly, of course.

Lucy had a very good morning. She, Dudley, and Piers had fun walking the twisting, clay-like roads and over the bridges, looking with interest over the different animal enclosures. Dudley and Piers were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, though Lucy could have gone on for another good few hours. They ate lunch in the zoo restaurant, which was full of fake plastic trees with monkeys swinging from them and jungle sounds coming from hidden speakers, and besides Dudley having a tantrum because his Knickerbocker Glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, everything went fine there too.

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in there, with lit windows all along the walls. The reptile house arced around in a kind of C, the dark cold brickwork inlaid with glowing golden glass tanks set along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick, man-crushing pythons. It made Lucy sigh a little to herself and think of them as plebeians, but not everyone could share her inherent intellectual interest in all types of animals.

Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon's car and crushed it into a trash can, but at the moment it didn't look in the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the glistening brown coils.

"Make it move," he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the glass, but the snake didn't budge.

"Do it again," Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

"This is boring," Dudley moaned. He shuffled away.

Lucy moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. She wouldn't have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself - no company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass, trying to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door to wake you up. At least she had plenty of other places she could visit.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its head until its eyes were on a level with Lucy's.

_It winked._

Lucy stared. Then she looked quickly around to see if anyone was watching. They weren't. She looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Lucy a look that said quite plainly:

_"I get that all the time."_

"I know," Lucy murmured through the glass, though she wasn't sure the snake could hear her. "It must be really annoying."

The snake nodded vigorously.

"Where do you come from, anyway?" Lucy asked.

The snake jabbed its tail at a little sign next to the glass. Lucy peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

"Was it nice there?"

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Lucy read on: This specimen was bred in the zoo. "Oh, I see - so you've never been to Brazil?"

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Lucy made both of them jump. "DUDLEY! MR DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU WON'T _BELIEVE_ WHAT IT'S DOING!"

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

"Out of the way, you," he told Lucy brusquely, and giving in was the smartest route, so Lucy stepped quickly aside. Piers and Dudley leaned right up close to the glass, oohing and aahing.

Lucy watched with a veiled, muted kind of sorrow and sadness as the boa constrictor hissed irritably at them and sank slowly down into its former torpor.

Lucy thought she was in the clear. But then they were all piling back in Uncle Vernon's car in the zoo parking lot at the end of the day, and Piers calmed down enough to say, "Lucy was talking to it, weren't you, Lucy?"

Lucy remained cautious. "What would have made you dream up a thing like that?" she asked flatly, a distinct lack of airiness in her tone and in her unusual glare. Piers looked surprised.

But Uncle Vernon wasn't fooled.

He waited until Piers was safely out of the house before starting in on Lucy. But Dudley stepped quickly between them. "Dad, she was trying to help me," he said quickly, shielding Lucy as her face broke into touched surprise and relief. "She was talking to the snake, hoping it would move for me."

"... Fine," Uncle Vernon bit out. "Tonight and tomorrow in the cupboard. No meals. She's let out the morning after."

It was better than Lucy could have hoped for, but Dudley wasn't satisfied. "But Dad -" he began, protesting.

"It was going to be two weeks with only one meal a day!" Uncle Vernon thundered there in the dark living room space that suddenly seemed somehow smaller, more dangerous, and more constricting. His eyes flashed in Lucy's direction. _"Go!"_

She scampered away as Uncle Vernon collapsed into an armchair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

-

Lucy lay in her dark cupboard much later, staring at her watch. Her most practical request from Dudley, she'd asked for a watch for a very specific reason.

She waited until a time she was sure the Dursleys were in bed. Then she snuck out into the kitchen and stole food during cupboard punishments.

This was not a manifestation of Lucy's truest nature. This was a survival mechanism. She kept plastic bags full of food from nighttime thievery underneath her bed during cupboard punishments.

She had other little survival mechanisms like that. A bucket in a corner in case she had to pee outside of her two allotted times outside the cupboard per day. A light bulb that always worked so that she could read and study the stars during long afternoons in her cupboard. A can of bug spray for the really nasty spiders. The worst were the ones that got in her hair at night while she was sleeping, in that tiny, dim, enclosed space.

Survival mechanisms.

She'd lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as long as she could remember, ever since she'd been a baby and her parents had died in that car crash. She couldn't remember being in the car when her parents had died. Sometimes, when she strained her memory during long hours in her cupboard, she came up with a strange vision: a blinding flash of green light and a burning pain on her forehead. This, she supposed, was the car crash, though she couldn't imagine where all the green light came from. She couldn't remember her parents at all. Her aunt and uncle never spoke about them, and of course she was forbidden to ask questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When she had been younger, Lucy had wandered countless streets just trying to escape her home, had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown relation coming to take her away, but it had never happened and nothing had ever worked; the Dursleys were her only family. Yet sometimes she thought (or maybe hoped) that strangers in the street seemed to know her. Very strange strangers they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to her once while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Lucy furiously if she knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in green had waved merrily at her once on a bus. A bald man in a very long purple coat had actually taken her hand and kissed it, like she was a princess, in the street the other day and then walked away without a word.

The weirdest thing about all these people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Lucy tried to get a closer look.


	2. Lucy Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies, but for this chapter and the next, it was hard to credibly establish really clear differences between girls or from canon. I tried to make differences where I felt I rationally could. The first part of the chapter is more obviously different than the second part. Otherwise, for now just enjoy, and if it's any consolation once we hit the Diagon Alley chapter, differences start to get much bigger. By the time you hit the Hogwarts Express you will almost be reading four totally separate stories. They will never truly become the same again afterward.
> 
> For now, just enjoy the story and the subtle differences. That's what these first three chapters are all about.

_Lucy Two_

School ended and the summer holidays began. Lucy spent as much time as possible outside with friends. Meanwhile, Dudley celebrated the beginning of summer in his own way. By the end of the second week, he had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote controlled aeroplane, and, first time out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches.

Dudley’s gang took over the Dursley house, visiting it every single day, so she saw them a lot. They were all friendly to her, as Dudley’s sister, but like Dudley most were rather big, dull fighters - Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon.

When September came, Lucy would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in her life, she wouldn’t be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Lucy, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school.

“I’m worried about you. I won’t be there and it’s supposed to be a pretty rough place,” said Dudley, his eyes narrowed, sizing her up as if seeing if she could handle her new school as they stood on the staircase one afternoon.

Lucy smiled softly, her eyes shining, touched by his concern. “I appreciate the thought, Dudley,” she said. “But I can handle myself.” Lucy could be surprisingly frigid when she wanted to be. But Dudley didn’t look convinced.

Lucy was, after all, just a little girl.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy school uniforms, leaving Lucy at Mrs Figg’s. Mrs Figg wasn’t as bad as usual. It turned out she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Lucy watch television and gave her a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she’d had it for several years.

That evening, Aunt Petunia handed Lucy some plain grey skirt and jacket uniforms. “Your new school uniforms,” she said brusquely, placing the neatly folded pile in Lucy’s arms in the front hall near the cupboard. “Put them away and come out to the living room.”

Dudley was assigned to parade around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings’ boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren’t looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her ickle Dudleykins, he looked so handsome and grown-up. Lucy didn’t trust herself to speak. She would probably have asked rather skeptically how on earth Dudley was ever supposed to find a girlfriend wearing this uniform, and that would not have gone over terribly well.

-

The next morning, everyone sat down to breakfast. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table.

They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

“Make Lucy get it.”

“Get the mail, Lucy.”

“Make Dudley get it.”

“Poke her with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Lucy dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and a letter for Lucy.

Lucy picked it up and looked it over searchingly, her eyes sharpening. She had gotten letters and postcards before, from school friends. But this letter seemed odd. First there was the address:

_Miss L. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp and no return address.

Turning the envelope over, Lucy saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H. _Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus,_ said tiny Latin letters in a ribbon around the animals.

“Hurry up, girl!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Lucy paused, looking over her shoulder - and then stuffed the letter underneath her clothes, hiding it for later. Her uncle always read her mail before her, and she’d never liked it. There was no perfectly good reason she herself couldn’t know the contents of this letter first.

Then she came back into the dining room and handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard.

Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard. “Marge’s ill,” he informed Aunt Petunia. “Ate a funny whelk -” 

But he’d looked up at Lucy and his eyes had narrowed. She smiled a small, hesitant, uncertain smile - then he reached forward and snatched the letter from underneath her clothes.

“Hey!” she said, outraged.

“I read your mail first,” said Uncle Vernon snottily.

He ripped open the envelope, took out a piece of heavy parchment paper, shook it open with one hand and glanced at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds it was the grayish white of old porridge.

“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.

“What is it? What’s going on?” said Dudley eagerly. He tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

“Vernon! Oh my goodness - Vernon!”

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Lucy and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

“I want to read that letter,” he said loudly.

“What’s in it?” Lucy demanded, unusually emotional at this apparently important piece of information about herself she didn’t get to know. “What’s so bad that’s in the letter for me?”

“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back inside its envelope.

Lucy frowned. “... No!” she said indignantly. “I won’t get out!” She rarely caused such a fuss, but the Dursleys had never kept a letter from her before. That meant, ironically, that this was the letter probably most worth reading. It contained something the Dursleys actively didn’t want her to know.

So… what _was_ it they didn’t want her to know?

“Let me see the letter!” demanded Dudley.

“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Lucy and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the carpeted hall, slamming the kitchen door behind them. Dudley and Lucy looked at each other - and Dudley motioned Lucy to look in the kitchen door keyhole, closer to the staircase, perhaps feeling she deserved it more. Gratefully, she knelt before the keyhole. Then Dudley lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor.

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, her back to Lucy in a kitchen table chair, “look at the address - how could they possibly know where she sleeps? You don’t think they’re watching the house?”

“Watching - spying - might be following us,” muttered Uncle Vernon wildly. He was pacing up and down the kitchen, his face an even deeper shade of purple than usual, his temple working and his tiny dark eyes roving around madly as he thought hard.

“But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don’t want -”

Uncle Vernon paced silently.

“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an answer… Yes, that’s best… we won’t do anything…”

“But -”

“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Especially not one of those nasty women! Didn’t we swear when we took her in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?”

-

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d never done before; he visited Lucy in her cupboard.

“Where’s my letter?” said Lucy quickly, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. “Who’s writing to me?”

“No one. It was addressed to you by mistake,” said Uncle Vernon shortly. “I have burned it.”

“... What made you think it was a mistake?” said Lucy cautiously, her head cocked. “It had my cupboard on it.”

“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, Lucy jumped, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

“Er - yes, Lucy - about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking… you’re really getting a bit big for it… we think it might be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.”

“Why?” said Lucy frankly, tensed but refusing to give into fear of her uncle.

“Don’t ask questions!” snapped her uncle. “Take this stuff upstairs, now.”

The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. Lucy moved everything she owned from the cupboard to this room. As she moved upstairs, Dudley was nice enough to move some of his things downstairs; he was clearing his old toys away for her and putting them in the basement, puffing with effort as he shoved them down the staircase. 

Nearly everything Lucy passed on her way up was broken. There was the month-old video camera. There was the small, working tank that Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s dog. There was Dudley’s first-ever television set, which he’d put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled. There was the large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for an air rifle, which also came from the second bedroom with its end all bent because Dudley had sat on it. Many, many books also came down the staircase and were consigned to the basement. They were the only things that looked as though they’d never been touched.

Meanwhile, everything Lucy owned was still in near perfect working order, and her countless books were much more well worn. She thought it was because she had none of her own money and she wasn’t allowed much - so she’d learned to be careful, and to treasure what she had. Her long, beautiful sheets replaced the standard curtains at the window. Her precious collection of her most important books went between two bookends on a high shelf. Her fluorescent planets and stars were glued to the bedroom ceiling, she standing on the bed to do it. Her astronomy star chart hung above the headboard. Her pile of astrology and astronomy books went on a very particular shelf as the rest of her books were spread wildly in piles across the bedroom floor. It was wonderful having so much space, the light flooding in through the window. She put her clothes and things in the wardrobe past the inside door mirror, her button-up blouses and high-waisted skirts, her many snagging bangle bracelets and her scuffed ballet flats, her loose striped and polka dotted long shirts, her hair ties. There was also a large bed, a bedside table with a repaired alarm clock and a lamp for her glasses and her watch, and a desk beside the long-curtained upstairs window.

Lucy sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday she’d have given anything to be up here. Today she’d rather be back in her cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

-

Next morning at breakfast, everything was rather quiet. Dudley seemed unusually hesitant around the dark moods of the rest of his family. Lucy was thinking somewhat bitterly about this time yesterday. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Lucy, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, “There’s another one! ‘Miss L. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive -’”

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the hall. Lucy stayed in her seat primly. She was curious to see the letter, not full of testosterone and stupid. She and Aunt Petunia sat there, exasperated and deadpan, as they heard Uncle Vernon and Dudley fighting and wrestling each other for the letter in the hall, accompanied by the frequent bangs of the Smelting stick.

At last, Uncle Vernon seemed to have won, because they heard his heaving gasps for breath, the fighting ceased, and then they heard him wheeze, “Dudley - go - just go.”

Lucy sat there in her seat, the cogs in her head turning behind her sharp eyes. Someone knew she had moved out of her cupboard and they seemed to know she hadn’t received her first letter. Surely that meant they’d try again? And this time she’d make sure they didn’t fail. She had a plan.

-

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next morning. Lucy turned it off quickly and dressed silently. She mustn’t wake the Dursleys. She stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.

She was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first, but she wasn’t stupid. Uncle Vernon would probably be sleeping at the foot of the front door; he was just that much of a control freak.

So she paused, squinting through the darkness - and sure enough, saw a lump in a sleeping bag at the foot of the front door. She caught her breath.

Now for the distraction.

She threw something small from her new bedroom and a vase fell over and shattered in the living room just across the hall. Then she crouched in the shadows near her old cupboard. Uncle Vernon jerked awake, shouting, and ran into the living room -

And Lucy made her break for it. She sprinted for the front door.

She almost made it. But lights clicked on upstairs, Uncle Vernon saw what she was trying, and Uncle Vernon was a _lot_ taller than her. In a few easy strides, he grabbed her and pulled her by the waist, kicking and struggling, away from the front door again.

Uncle Vernon had clearly been sleeping there to try to prevent Lucy from doing exactly what she had tried to do. And lying there on the sleeping bag now, shoved through the mail slot, were three letters addressed in emerald green ink.

Uncle Vernon ripped the letters into pieces before her eyes, shouted at her for about half an hour, and then told her to go and make him a cup of tea.

Uncle Vernon didn’t go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot. 

“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, “if they can’t _deliver_ then they’ll just give up.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.”

“Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not like you and me,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

-

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Lucy. As they couldn’t go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in one of the bathrooms. 

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the front and back doors so no one could get out. He hummed “Tiptoe Through the Tulips” as he worked and jumped at small noises.

Lucy wasn’t sure who these so-called nasty women were, but Uncle Vernon must not want her to be one pretty badly.

-

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Lucy found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy, trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

-

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers, “no damn letters today -”

Something came whizzing down the red brick kitchen chimney near the table as he spoke and caught him sharply in the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Lucy leapt into the air trying to catch one -

“Out! OUT!”

Uncle Vernon seized Lucy around the waist and threw her into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. “I want you all back here in five minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!”

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway. Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, movie player, and computer into his sports bag.

Lucy reached out and gave Dudley’s hand a gentle squeeze, still looking carefully straight ahead, faux calm. He looked over at her and his sniffles quieted a little.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare ask where they were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while.

“Shake ‘em off… shake ‘em off,” he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was howling, and try as she might, not even Lucy could calm him down. Dudley had never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he’d missed five television programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone so long without blowing up an alien on one of his video games.

Lucy was used to all three of those things, most particularly having suffered cupboard punishments but in general never being treated as well, so she wasn’t sure what to say. She felt sorry for Dudley, and how ill prepared he was for the nastier parts of the world.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. The city was a poor little place full of boarded-up windows and tiny, crummy corners, not particularly comforting especially in the blackness of night. The hotel carried all the tower of a fancy hotel but the look of a run down motel, complete with one missing letter in the neon sign hung above their ground floor, which was not a particularly comforting combination. Dudley and Imogen shared a room with stiff, hard twin beds and damp, musty sheets, a small, square room obviously meant for sleeping and not for decorative or comfortable surroundings. Dudley snored, exhausted after his trying day, but Lucy stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the red lights of passing cars and the shadows of passing people at the intersection below, wondering… 

-

They ate stale cornflakes and cold, tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next morning. They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table.

“Excuse me, but it was one of you Miss L. Potter? Only I got about a hundred of these at the front desk.”

She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

_Miss L. Potter_

_Room 17_

_Railview Hotel_

_Cokeworth_

Lucy made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked her hand out of the way. The woman stared.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the clinking, functional, utilitarian dining room full of white tablecloths on tiny white tables.

-

“Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest of evergreens. He got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed grain field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the open top of a multi-level parking garage.

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, along a flat stretch of wet stone right near a cliff leading down to the sea, had locked them all inside the car, and had disappeared into the curtains of grey rain moving toward them from the vast silvery sky.

The rain reached them. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a _television.”_

Monday. This reminded Lucy of something. If it _was_ Monday - and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television - then tomorrow, Tuesday, July 31st, would be Lucy’s eleventh birthday. Of course, she was with the Dursleys, who never usually celebrated her birthdays - that was more of her friends’ thing - last year on her birthday, the Dursleys had given her a coat hanger and an ugly old blouse of Aunt Petunia’s that she’d been about to give away to charity. Still, you weren’t eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back, dripping wet, and he was smiling eerily. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d bought.

“Found the perfect place!” he said. “Come on! Everyone out!”

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing over the cliff, across the iron-grey, foaming white, choppy waves that looked definitely dangerous, toward what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was a tiny, tilted stone shack with empty windows. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.

“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. “And this gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his boat!”

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, down some steps leading down the side of the cliff to an old rowboat bobbing in the water below them.

“I’ve already got us some rations,” said Uncle Vernon, “so all aboard!”

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; the floor was made of dirt, the whole place smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, there was only a single sofa, and the fireplace it was in front of was damp and empty. There were only two rooms, the other being a small bedroom.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of crisps each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty crisp bags just smoked and shriveled up.

“Could do with some of those letters now, eh?” he said cheerfully.

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Lucy privately agreed, though the thought didn’t cheer her up at all. She fell into a morose kind of despair.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the tiny, thick, filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the ugly, moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Lucy was left to find the softest bit of floor she could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Lucy couldn’t sleep. She shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, her stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley’s watch, which dangled over the edge of the sofa on his thick wrist, told Lucy she’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. She lay and watched her birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter-writer was now.

Four minutes to go. Lucy heard something creak outside. She hoped the roof wasn’t going to fall in, although she might be warmer if it did. Four minutes to go. Maybe the house on Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that she’d be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and she’d be eleven. Thirty seconds… twenty… ten… nine - maybe she’d wake Dudley up, just to annoy him - three… two… one…

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Lucy sat bolt upright, staring at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.


	3. Lucy Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the chapter that was hardest to write credible differences for. But I can't rewrite the whole series and not include this incredibly important chapter. Consider this one final chapter of mostly the same for each girl before the differences from each other and from canon start coming fast.
> 
> There is at least one important difference from canon in this chapter that will start to echo out in repercussions later for each girl, though. Let me know if you spot it.

_Lucy Three_

BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake.

“Where’s the cannon?” he said stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands - now they knew what had been in the long, thin package he’d brought with them.

“Who’s there?” he shouted. “I warn you - I’m armed!”

There was a pause. Then -

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair. He wore boots and a black leather jacket.

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.

“Couldn’t make us a cup of tea, could you?” he said casually in a thick West Country accent. “It’s not been an easy journey…”

He strode over to the sofa where Dudley sat frozen with fear.

“Budge up, you great lump,” said the stranger.

Dudley stood slowly, shaking - and went over to stand tremblingly in front of Lucy, shielding her. Lucy paused in surprise, looking tenderly at his back. “Wh-what are you planning on doing with her?” Dudley stammered out, clearly petrified. “Are you going to hurt her?”

The giant seemed to gentle a little. “Maybe I didn’t give enough credit,” he admitted. “Don’t worry, I don’t mean her no harm.”

“Duddy! Come over here!” Aunt Petunia was hissing.

Dudley looked back over his shoulder at Lucy. “It’s okay, Dudley,” she said, smiling sadly. “You can go.”

And so Dudley walked away to his parents. As he did, a huge gap widened between him and Lucy, a gap that seemed somehow more than physical. Dudley went to hide behind his mother, who was crouching, terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

“Well, and here’s Lucy!” said the giant.

Lucy looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

“Last time I saw you, you was only a baby,” said the giant. “You look a lot like your Dad, a true Potter, but you’ve got your Mum’s eyes.”

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

“I demand that you leave at once, sir!” he said. “You are breaking and entering!”

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, you great prune,” said the giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room.

Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

“Anyway - Lucy,” said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, “a very happy birthday to you. Got something for you here - I might’ve sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste all right.”

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Lucy opened it slowly. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with the words _Happy Birthday Lucy_ written on it in green icing. 

Lucy looked up at the giant. She meant to say thank you, but the words got lost on the way to her mouth, and what she said instead was, “Who are you?”

The giant chuckled.

“True, I haven’t introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”

He held out an enormous hand and shook Lucy’s whole arm.

“What about that tea then, eh?” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I’d not say no to something stronger if you’ve got it, mind.”

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled crisp bags in it and he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn’t see what he was doing but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Lucy felt the warmth wash over her as though she’d sunk into a hot bath.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said sharply, “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”

The giant snorted again, but said nothing. He instead passed the sausages to Lucy, who was so hungry she had never tasted anything so wonderful, but she still couldn’t take her eyes off the giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, she said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.”

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. And like I told you, I’m Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts - you’ll know all about Hogwarts, of course.”

“Er - no,” said Lucy.

Hagrid looked shocked.

“Sorry,” Lucy said quickly.

 _“Sorry?”_ barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back into the shadows. “It’s them that should be sorry! I knew you weren’t getting your letters but I never thought you wouldn’t even know about Hogwarts, for crying out loud! Did you never wonder where your parents learned it all?”

“All what?” asked Lucy.

“ALL WHAT?” Hagrid thundered. “Now wait just one second!”

He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the whole hut. The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

“Do you mean to tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys, “that this girl - this girl! - knows nothing about - about ANYTHING?”

Lucy thought this was going a bit far. She had been to school, after all, and her marks weren’t bad. 

“I know _some_ things,” she said. “I can, you know, do math and stuff.”

But Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About _our_ world, I mean. _Your_ world. _My_ world. _Your parents’ world.”_

“What world?”

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.

“DURSLEY!” he boomed.

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like “Mimblewimble.” Hagrid stared wildly at Lucy.

“But you must know about your mum and dad,” he said. “I mean, they’re _famous._ You’re _famous.”_

“What? My - my mum and dad weren’t famous, were they?”

“You don’t know…. You don’t know…” Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Lucy with a bewildered stare. 

“You don’t know what you _are?”_ he said finally.

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.

“Stop!” he commanded. “Stop right there, sir! I forbid you to tell the girl anything!”

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the furious look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with rage.

“You never told her? Never told her what was in the letter Dumbledore left for her? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! And you’ve kept it from her all these years?”

“Kept _what_ from me?” said Lucy eagerly.

“STOP! I FORBID YOU!” yelled Uncle Vernon in panic.

Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.

“Ah, go boil your heads, both of you,” said Hagrid. “Lucy - you’re a witch.”

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard.

“I’m a _what?”_ Lucy gasped.

“A witch, of course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, “ and a thumping good one, I’d say, once you’ve been trained up a bit. With a mum and dad like yours, what else would you be? And I reckon it’s about time you read your letter.”

Lucy stretched out her hand at last to take the yellowish envelope, addressed in emerald green to Miss L. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. She pulled out the letter and read:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Miss Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

Questions exploded inside Lucy’s head like fireworks and she couldn’t decide which to ask first. After a few minutes she stammered, “What does it mean, they await my owl?”

“Galloping Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a carthorse, and from yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl - a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl - a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note that Lucy could read upside down:

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_Given Lucy her letter._

_Taking her to buy her things tomorrow._

_Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well._

_Hagrid_

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.

Lucy realized her mouth was open and closed it quickly.

“Where was I?” said Hagrid, but at that moment, Uncle Vernon, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.

“She’s not going,” he said.

Hagrid grunted.

“I’d like to see a great Muggle like you stop her,” he said.

“A what?” said Lucy, interested.

“A Muggle,” said Hagrid, “it’s what we call nonmagic folk like them. And it’s your bad luck you grew up in a family of the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on.”

“We swore when we took her in we’d put a stop to that rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp it out of her! Witch indeed!”

“You knew?” said Lucy. “You knew I’m a - a witch?”

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. “Knew! Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that - that school - and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frogspawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!”

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed she had been wanting to say all this for years.

“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange, just as - as - abnormal - and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!

“Because you’re just like her! I always knew it and this proves it! You’re just as much of a freak as my sister was! Witches are Satanic, against the laws of nature! You know, I suppose, what they used to do to women they suspected were witches,” she finished vindictively.

“Quite right,” said Uncle Vernon in a hard voice. “Witches are unnatural women! They refuse to see their place in the world and -!”

“Then I am a witch!” Lucy shouted defiantly, and the Dursleys paused in surprise. Lucy’s face twisted, her hands in fists, and as she heard this extra prejudice against females with magic, she there and then made herself a promise. “And I am going to be the best damn witch I can be - the best the world’s ever seen! I’ll work as hard as I have to, train as much as I need! I’m going to be a witch, what you called a nasty woman, and I’m going to be a powerful one!

“Oh… and blown up? You told me my parents died in a car crash.” Lucy’s eyes narrowed.

“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys scuttled back to their corner. “How could a car crash kill Lily and James Potter? It’s an outrage! A scandal! Lucy Potter not knowing her own story when every kid in our world knows her name, knows her as the Girl Who Lived!”

“But why? What happened?” Lucy asked urgently. 

The anger faded from Hagrid’s face. He looked suddenly anxious.

“I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried voice. “I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble getting hold of you, how much you didn’t know. Ah, Lucy, I don’t know if I’m the right person to tell you - but someone’s gotta - you can’t go off to Hogwarts not knowing.”

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

“Well, it’s best you know as much as I can tell you - mind, I can’t tell you everything, it’s a great mystery, parts of it…”

He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, “It begins, I suppose, with - with a person called - but it’s incredible you don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows -”

“Who?”

“Well - I don’t like saying the name if I can help it. No one does.”

“Why not?”

“Gulping gargoyles, Lucy, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went… bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…”

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

“Could you write it down?” Lucy suggested.

“Nah - can’t spell it. All right - Voldemort.” Hagrid shuddered. “Don’t make me say it again. Anyway, this - this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started looking for followers. Got them, too - some were afraid, some just wanted a bit of his power, because he was getting himself power, all right. Dark days, Lucy. Didn’t know who to trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches… terrible things happened. He was taking over. ‘Course, some stood up to him - and he killed them. Horribly. One of the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of. Didn’t dare try taking the school, not just then, anyway.

“Now, your mum and dad were as good a witch and wizard as I ever knew - head boy and girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the mystery is why You-Know-Who never tried to get them on his side before - probably knew they were too close to Dumbledore to want anything to do with the Dark Side.

“Maybe he thought he could persuade them… maybe he just wanted them out of the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came to your house and - and -”

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s that sad - knew your mum and dad, and nicer people you couldn’t find - anyway…

“You-Know-Who killed them. And then - and this is the real mystery of the thing - he tried to kill you, too. Wanted to make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killing by then. But he couldn’t do it. That’s why you’re the Girl Who Lived. Never wondered how you got that mark on your forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That’s what you get when a powerful, evil curse touches you - took care of your mum and dad and your house, even - but it didn’t work on you, and that’s why you’re famous, Lucy. No one ever lived after he decided to kill them, no one except you, and he’d killed some of the best wizards and witches of the age - the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts - and you was only a baby, and you lived.”

Something very painful was going on in Lucy’s mind. As Hagrid’s story came to a close, she saw again the blinding flash of green light, more clearly than she had ever remembered it before, and she remembered something else, for the first time in her life: a high, cold, cruel laugh.

Hagrid was watching her sadly.

“Took you from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore’s orders. Brought you to this lot…”

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Lucy jumped; she had almost forgotten the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched.

“Now, you listen here, girl,” he snarled, “I accept there’s something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured - and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying it, and the world’s better off without them in my opinion - asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types - just what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky end -”

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a sword, he said, “I’m warning you, Dursley - I’m warning you - one more word…”

In danger of being speared on the end an umbrella by a bearded giant, Uncle Vernon’s courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent.

“That’s better,” said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor.

Lucy, meanwhile, still had questions to ask, hundreds of them.

“But what happened to Vol-, sorry - I mean, You-Know-Who?”

“Good question, Lucy. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried to kill you. Makes you even more famous. That’s the biggest mystery, see… he was getting more and more powerful - why’d he go?

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Don’t know if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he’s still out there, biding his time, like, but I don’t believe it. People who was on his side came back to ours. Some of them came out of kind of trances. Don’t reckon they could’ve done if he was coming back.

“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ‘Cause something about you finished him, Lucy. There was something going on that night that he hadn’t counted on - I don’t know what it was, no one does - but something about you stumped him, all right.”

Hagrid looked at Lucy with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but Lucy, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. A witch? Her? How could she possibly be? She’d spent her life being protected by Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if she was really a witch, why hadn’t her aunt and uncle been turned into warty toads every time they’d tried to lock her in her cupboard? If she’d once defeated the greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had had to save her from every common schoolyard Muggle bully?

“Hagrid,” she said quietly, “I think you must have made a mistake. I don’t think I can be a witch.”

To her surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

“Not a witch, eh? Never made things happen when you was scared or angry?”

Lucy looked into the fire. Now she came to think about it… every odd thing that had ever made her aunt and uncle furious with her had happened when she, Lucy, had been upset or angry… picked on by that bully, she’d somehow distracted him with some sort of hallucination… dreading going back to school with that ridiculous haircut, she’d managed to grow it back… hating that ugly secondhand dress, she’d shrunk it until it no longer fit her… feeling sorry for that snake, it had suddenly become attracted to her and she’d been able to talk with it.

Lucy looked back at Hagrid, smiling, and saw that Hagrid was positively beaming at her.

“See?” said Hagrid. “Lucy Potter, not a witch - you wait, you’ll be right famous at Hogwarts.”

But Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to give in without a fight.

“Haven’t I told you she’s not going?” he hissed. “She’s going to Stonewall High and she’ll be grateful for it. I’ve read those books and she needs all sorts of rubbish - spell books and wands and -”

“If she wants to go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop her,” growled Hagrid. “Stop Lily and James Potter’s daughter going to Hogwarts! You’re mad. Her name’s been down ever since she was born. She’s off to the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and she won’t know herself. She’ll be with youngsters of her own sort, for a change, and she’ll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had, Albus Dumbled -”

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HER MAGIC TRICKS!” yelled Uncle Vernon.

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head. “NEVER -” he thundered, “- INSULT - ALBUS - DUMBLEDORE - IN - FRONT - OF - ME!”

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Uncle Vernon - there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Uncle Vernon was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Lucy saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

Aunt Petunia screamed. Pulling Uncle Vernon and Dudley into the other room, she cast one terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.

“Shouldn’t’ve lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it didn’t work anyway. Meant to turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn’t much left to do.”

He cast a sideways look at Lucy under his bushy eyebrows.

“Be grateful if you didn’t mention that to anyone at Hogwarts,” he said. “I’m - er - not supposed to do magic, strictly speaking. I was allowed to do a bit to follow you and get your letters to you and stuff - one of the reasons I was so keen to take on the job -”

“Why aren’t you supposed to do magic?” asked Lucy.

“Oh, well - I was at Hogwarts meself, but I - er - got expelled, to tell you the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half and everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.”

“Why were you expelled?”

“It’s getting late and we’ve got lots to do tomorrow,” said Hagrid loudly. “Gotta get up to town, get all your books and that.”

He took off his thick black coat and threw it at Lucy.

“You can kip under that,” he said. “Don’t mind if it wriggles a bit. I think I still got a couple of dormice in one of the pockets.”


	4. Lucy Four

_Lucy Four_

Lucy woke early the next morning. Although she could tell it was daylight, she kept her eyes shut tight.

“It was a dream,” she told herself firmly. “I dreamed a giant called Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for witches. When I open my eyes I’ll be at home in my cupboard.”

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

“And there’s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door,” Lucy thought, her heart sinking. But she still didn’t open her eyes. It had been such a good dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“All right,” Lucy mumbled, “I’m getting up.”

She sat up and Hagrid’s heavy coat fell off her. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper held in its beak.

Lucy scrambled to her feet, so happy she felt as though a large balloon were swelling inside her. She went straight to the window and jerked it open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn’t wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid’s coat.

“Don’t do that.”

Lucy tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its beak fiercely at her and carried on savaging the coat. 

“Hagrid!” said Lucy loudly. “There’s an owl -”

“Pay him,” Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

“What?”

“He wants paying for delivering the paper. Look in the pockets.”

Hagrid’s coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets - bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags… finally, Lucy pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.

“Give him five Knuts,” said Hagrid sleepily.

“Knuts?”

“The little bronze ones.”

Lucy counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out his leg so Lucy could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

“Best be off, Lucy, lots to do today, gotta get up to London and buy all your stuff for school.”

Lucy was turning over the witch coins and looking at them. She had just thought of something that made her feel as though the happy balloon inside her had got a puncture.

“Um - Hagrid?”

“Mm?” said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots.

“I haven’t got any money - and I don’t think Uncle Vernon would let even Dudley pay for my schooling. You heard Uncle Vernon last night… he won’t pay for me to go and learn magic. Not in any way.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his head. “Do you think your parents didn’t leave you anything?”

“But if their house was destroyed -”

“They didn’t keep their gold in the house, girl! Nah, first stop for us is Gringotts. Wizards’ bank. Have a sausage, they’re not bad cold - and I wouldn’t say no to a bit of your birthday cake, neither.”

“Wizards and witches have banks?”

“Just the one. Gringotts. Run by goblins.”

Lucy dropped the bit of sausage she was holding.

“Goblins?”

“Yeah - so you’d be mad to try and rob it, I’ll tell you that. Never mess with goblins, Lucy. Gringotts is the safest place in the world for anything you want to keep safe - except maybe Hogwarts. As a matter of fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. For Dumbledore. Hogwarts business.” Hagrid drew himself up proudly. “He usually gets me to do important stuff for him. Fetching you - getting things from Gringotts - knows he can trust me, see.

“Got everything? Come on, then.”

Lucy followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

“How did you get here?” Lucy asked, looking around for another boat.

“Flew,” said Hagrid.

“Flew?!”

“Yeah - but we’ll go back in this. Not supposed to do magic now I’ve got you.”

They settled down in the boat, Lucy still staring at Hagrid, trying to imagine him flying.

“Seems a shame to row, though,” said Hagrid, giving Lucy another of his sideways looks. “If I was to - er - speed things up a bit, would you mind not mentioning it at Hogwarts?”

“Of course not,” said Lucy, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land.

“Why would you be mad to try and rob Gringotts?” Lucy asked.

“Spells - enchantments,” said Hagrid, unfolding his newspaper as he spoke. “They say there’s dragons guarding the high security vaults. And then you’ve got to find your way around - Gringotts is hundreds of miles under London, see. Deep under the Underground. You’d die of hunger trying to get out, even if you did manage to get your hands on something.”

Lucy sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his newspaper, the Daily Prophet. Lucy had learned from Uncle Vernon that people liked to be left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, she’d never had so many questions in her life.

“Ministry of Magic messing things up as usual,” Hagrid muttered, turning the page.

“There’s a Ministry of Magic?” Lucy asked, before she could stop herself.

“‘Course,” said Hagrid. “They wanted Dumbledore for Minister, of course, but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge got the job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls every morning, asking for advice.”

“But what does a Ministry of Magic do?”

“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there’s still witches and wizards up and down the country.”

“Why?”

“Why?! Blimey, Lucy, everyone would be wanting magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.”

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See that, Lucy? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?”

So Lucy tried explaining things to him. “It’s because parking spaces are limited, so guests pay to park at them,” she said, looking up at him softly and earnestly. Hagrid plainly didn’t get it.

“Hagrid,” said Lucy at last, “did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?”

“Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a dragon.”

“You’d… like one?”

“Wanted one ever since I was a kid - here we go.”

They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t understand “Muggle money” as he called it, gave the bills to Lucy so she could buy their tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent. Lucy looked out the window and pretended not to notice the staring.

“Still got your letter, Lucy?” Hagrid asked as he counted stitches.

Lucy took the parchment envelope out of her pocket.

“Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list in there of everything you need.”

Lucy unfolded a second piece of paper she hadn’t noticed the night before, and read:

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Uniform_

_First-year students will require:_

_Three sets of plain work robes (black)_

_One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

_One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

_One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_

_Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags._

_Course Books_

_All students should have a copy of each of the following:_

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk_

_A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot_

_Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_

_A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch_

_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore_

_Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger_

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander_

_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble_

_Other Equipment_

_1 wand_

_1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

_1 set glass or crystal vials_

_1 telescope_

_1 set brass scales_

_Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad._

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS_

“Can we buy all this in London?” Lucy wondered aloud.

“If you know where to go,” said Hagrid.

-

Lucy had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. Lucy watched uncertainly as he got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without magic,” he said to Lucy’s hesitant blinking, as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Lucy had to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Could there really be piles of witch’s gold buried miles beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke the Dursleys had cooked up? If Lucy hadn’t known that the Dursleys had no sense of humor, she might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything Hagrid had told her so far was unbelievable, Lucy couldn’t help trusting him.

“This is it,” said Hagrid, coming to a halt, “the Leaky Cauldron. It’s a famous place.”

It was a tiny, old-fashioned pub with a dark wood front and a painted oval sign hung out on a rod, wood plank flapping slightly in the breeze. The Leaky Cauldron seemed somewhat grubby; even the sign seemed coated in very old soot.

If Hagrid hadn’t pointed the Leaky Cauldron out, Lucy wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other, and they strolled farther down Charing Cross Road as if they couldn’t see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Lucy had the most peculiar feeling that only she and Hagrid could see it. Before she could mention this, Hagrid had steered her inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. It had lots of little dark wood tables, a long bar with gleaming metal instruments behind it, a fireplace off to the right side, and a staircase off to the left side that must lead up to the rooms. Even the flower-printed wallpaper seemed again old and sooty. A few old women were sitting in a corner drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut.

“They’re all wearing ordinary clothes,” Lucy murmured, frowning. “But with some very old-fashioned additions.”

“Yeah, well,” said Hagrid, “we do wear Muggle clothes, mostly. Robes are mostly traditional things, for special or official occasions, they don’t really have a fashion. Only eccentrics always wear robes. And we tend to live longer than Muggles, so you’ll see a lot of people walking around dressed up in some very old fashioned Muggle garments - the kind they wore when they were young. When we’re out among Muggles and we want to spot each other, though, we always try to wear purple and green. Those are our colors.”

The low buzz of chatter in the Leaky Cauldron had stopped by this point. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, “The usual, Hagrid?”

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid, clapping his great hand on Lucy’s shoulder and marking Lucy’s knees buckle.

“Good Lord,” said the bartender, peering at Lucy, “is this - can this be -?”

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

“Bless my soul,” whispered the old bartender, “Lucy Potter… what an honor.”

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Lucy and seized her hand, tears in his eyes.

“Welcome back, Miss Potter, welcome back.”

Lucy didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking at her. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Lucy found herself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron. Two particularly old-fashioned men bowed over her hand again, the second time that had happened in her life.

“Doris Crockford, Miss Potter, can’t believe I’m meeting you at last.”

“So proud, Miss Potter, I’m just so proud.”

“Always wanted to shake your hand - I’m all of a flutter.”

“Delighted, Miss Potter, just can’t tell you, Diggle’s the name, Dedalus Diggle.”

“I’ve seen you before!” said Lucy, as Dedalus Diggle’s top hat fell off in his excitement. “You bowed to me once in a shop.”

“She remembers!” cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. “Did you hear that? She remembers me!”

Lucy shook and offered her hand again and again - Doris Crockford kept coming back for more; those same two men wouldn’t stop bowing.

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching.

“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Lucy, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

“P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Lucy’s hand, “c-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

“What sort of magic do you teach, Professor Quirrell?”

“D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered Professor Quirrell, as though he’d rather not think about it. “N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?” He laughed nervously.

“Oh, I’m sure you have so much to teach me,” said Lucy eagerly, remembering her promise to become a great witch from the night before. “Professor, I’m particularly interested, what can a witch do after she leaves school? I aim to become someone special, you see.”

“S-some would s-s-say you already a-are,” said Professor Quirrell, smiling anxiously and seeming surprised.

“But I want to actually do something. Not just have something happen to me,” said Lucy firmly. “Not necessarily something great… just something that proves I’m a worthwhile witch.”

“You don’t have to prove that to anyone, Lucy,” said Hagrid.

“Except to myself,” said Lucy. “So, Professor.” She turned back to him, eagle-eyed. “Is there anything in particular I should study? What are my career options?” She lifted her head. She wanted to know what a witch could do after she left school.

“W-well…” said Professor Quirrell thoughtfully, apparently interested to be asked a scholarly question. “Th-there are really f-four ways to go. There are the w-working class jobs - sh-shop clerk, caretaker. There are the jobs that are e-everywhere - p-professor, journalist, lawyer, g-government worker, Au-Aurors are a bit like policemen, and then Potioneers for Apothecaries are rather like ph-pharmacists in the Muggle world, while Healers are rather like d-doctors. No b-banking; th-that’s goblin purview. There are jobs in any of the arts, though one would replace f-film with th-theater in our world, as we don’t have t-television or the Internet; we even have our kind of p-professional sports. Then there are specifically m-magical jobs - working with m-magical creatures or in magical experimentation and theory, working on the magic surrounding G-Gringotts vaults, alchemy, that sort of thing. There are even people who specifically s-study sentient magical creature languages, or M-Muggle culture. And there are people who magically reconfigure w-wizarding technology, electricity normally being incompatible with m-magic, to f-fit into our old-fashioned w-world.

“You have m-many options, Miss Potter. N-n-never forget that.”

“That sounds wonderful…” said Lucy softly, watching him intently. 

“Professor Quirrell knows, ‘cause he used to teach Muggle Studies,” said Hagrid proudly. “That’s a third-year elective. He changed subjects.”

“Really? That’s interesting,” said Lucy thoughtfully. “What made you go from one to the other?”

Nervous Professor Quirrell looked like he was beginning to wonder the same thing himself. He was still pale; one of his eyes was still twitching. “Oh, j-just wanted a change.” He tried for a trembling, brave smile. “S-so, P-P-Potter, you’ll be g-g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.” He looked terrified at the very thought.

“I can’t wait to buy books. I’ll have to start out with lots of extras,” said Lucy, smiling. Hearing her countless career options had excited her, opened her eyes to all the things she could do with her life if she took her studies seriously enough. This world, with its modern clothes and its selective technology and its fantastical careers, was like the ordinary world on steroids. All those careers… how would she be able to choose just one?!

But the others wouldn’t let Professor Quirrell keep Lucy to himself. It took almost ten more minutes to get away from them all. At last, Hagrid managed to make himself heard over the babble.

“Must get on - lots to buy. Come on, Lucy.”

Doris Crockford shook Lucy’s hand one last time, and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds. 

Hagrid grinned at Lucy.

“Told you, didn’t I? Told you you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell was trembling to meet you - mind you, he’s usually trembling.”

“Is he always that nervous?”

“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studying out of books, but then he took a year off to get some firsthand experience… They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit of trouble with a hag - never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject - now, where’s me umbrella?”

Hagrid found it, took it out of his coat pocket, and began counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

“Three up… two across…” he muttered. “Right, stand back, Lucy.”

He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

The brick he had touched quivered - it wriggled - in the middle a small hole appeared - it grew wider and wider - a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street full of colorful little shop buildings that twisted and turned out of sight.

“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.”

He grinned at Lucy’s amazement. They stepped through the archway. Lucy looked quickly over her shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver - Self Stirring - Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them. The shop was called Potages.

“Yeah, you’ll be needing one,” said Hagrid, “but we’ve got to get your money first.”

Lucy wished she had about eight more eyes. She turned her head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they’re mad…”

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium - Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of about Lucy’s age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. “Look,” Lucy heard one of them say, “the new Nimbus Two Thousand - fastest ever…” Meanwhile, several girls of about Lucy’s age were oohing and aahing outside the windows of a department store advertising itself as Gladrags Wizardwear. There were shops selling antique robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Lucy had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon… 

“Gringotts,” said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white marble building with Grecian columns that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was - 

“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Lucy. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Lucy noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

_Enter, stranger, but take heed_

_Of what awaits the sin of greed,_

_For those who take, but do not earn,_

_Must pay most dearly in their turn._

_So if you seek beneath our floors_

_A treasure that was never yours,_

_Thief, you have been warned, beware_

_Of finding more than treasure there._

“Like I said, you’d be mad to try and rob it,” said Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Lucy made for the counter.

“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come to take some money out of Miss Lucy Potter’s safe.”

“You have her key, sir?”

“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin’s book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Lucy watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

“Got it,” said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely. 

“That seems to be in order.”

Lucy took the key and tucked it deep in her pocket.

“And I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.”

The goblin read the letter carefully.

“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid. “I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all of the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Lucy followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.

“What’s the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?” Lucy asked.

“Can’t tell you that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore’s trusted me. More than my job’s worth to tell you that.”

Griphook held the door open for them. Lucy, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in - Hagrid with some difficulty - and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passageways. Lucy tried to remember left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because Griphook wasn’t steering.

Lucy’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but she kept them wide open. Once, she thought she saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late - they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

“I never know,” Lucy called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart, “what’s the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite.”

“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Hagrid. “And don’t ask me questions just now, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling.

So Lucy asked Griphook. “Griphook - just what does my family’s money look like?” She thought this to be an important thing to know, if she was going to try and know everything that was important.

“Well.” Griphook paused thoughtfully. “You had an ancestor in the twelfth century who invented several commonly used medicinal potions. You get a cut of money every single time a Skele-Gro Potion or a Pepperup Potion is made, bought, and sold. That’s a limb regrowing potion and the cure for the common cold.”

Lucy’s eyes had widened.

“So you have quite a bit of money,” said Griphook casually. “The Potters are one of our oldest and wealthiest families. You have the trust fund you can access now, and then the main Potter family vault when you come of age at seventeen. The main vault continually refills the trust vault, and the medicinal potions continually refill the main vault. Do you see?”

Lucy did see.

“The family vault is cursed with an ever-growing spell. The minute a piece of gold is touched, it continues to magically multiply false gold until eventually the thief drowns in a pile of the money they themselves wanted. The trust vault is cursed with toxic fumes - they come out every time the vault is opened, and are only harmless to those with good intentions and those who belong. So a bit milder.

“You are worth several million Galleons a year. In Muggle terms that makes you a billionaire,” said Griphook, smirking.

A billionaire. Lucy was speechless, completely floored.

But that was nothing compared to what was about to come.

Lucy’s trust vault was number six hundred and eighty seven. Griphook unlocked the door with the tiny golden key, then gave it back to Lucy. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Lucy gasped, wordless. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

“All yours,” smiled Hagrid.

All Lucy’s - it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t have known about this or they’d have had it from her faster than blinking. How often had they complained how much Lucy cost them to keep? And all the time there had been a fortune belonging to her, buried deep under London.

“... Can this be transferred over into Muggle pounds, any of it?” she asked intently.

“As much as you wish, Miss Potter,” said Griphook with a slow, wicked smile.

“... I would like to do that when we get back to the hall,” she said, determination forming over her expression. She would finally be able to pay back Dudley.

Hagrid helped Lucy pile some of it into a bag.

“The gold ones are Galleons,” he explained. “Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough. Right, that should be enough for a couple of terms, we’ll keep the rest safe for you.” He turned to Griphook. “Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?”

“One speed only,” said Griphook.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled around tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Lucy leaned over to try to see what was at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and pulled her back by the scruff of her neck.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be sucked through the door and trapped in there,” said Griphook.

“How often do you check to see if anyone’s inside?” Lucy asked.

“About once every ten years,” said Griphook with a rather nasty grin.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Lucy was sure, and she leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at the very least - but at first she thought it was empty. Then she noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Lucy longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.

“Come on, back inside this infernal cart, and don’t talk to me on the way back, it’s best if I keep me mouth shut,” said Hagrid.

-

One wild cart ride and exchange of some of Lucy’s money at the counter later, they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Lucy didn’t know where to run first now that she had a bag full of witch’s gold. She knew she was holding more money than she’d had in her whole life - more money than even Dudley had ever had.

“Might as well get your uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. “Listen, Lucy, would you mind if I slipped off for a pick me up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Lucy entered Madam Malkin’s shop alone, feeling nervous.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. 

“Hogwarts, dear?” she said, when Lucy started to speak. “Got the lot here. A young man your age being fitted up just now, in fact.”

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Lucy on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over her head, and began to pin it to the right length.

“Hello,” said the boy. “Hogwarts, too?”

“Yes,” said Lucy.

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,” said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

Lucy felt a sharp spurt of distaste.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got your own broom or play Quidditch at all, being a girl,” the boy supposed slowly.

Whether Quidditch was a game or a sport, Lucy frowned.

“You’re right, I don’t have my own broom, but I don’t think it’s because I’m a girl,” she said, quiet but surprisingly fierce.

The boy smirked. “Oh, of course,” he drawled, rolling his eyes.

Lucy was still wondering what on earth Quidditch could be and why broom flying was reserved for men. She was beginning to strongly dislike this boy.

“I play Quidditch,” the boy continued. “Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you’ll be in yet?”

“No,” said Lucy, feeling more stupid by the minute.

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?”

“Mmm,” said Lucy, wishing she could say something a bit more interesting.

“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Lucy and pointing at two large ice cream cones to show he couldn’t come in.

“That’s Hagrid,” said Lucy, brightening. “He works at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” said the boy, “I’ve heard of him. He’s a sort of servant, isn’t he?”

“He’s the gamekeeper,” said Lucy. She was liking this boy less and less every second.

“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage - lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.”

“I personally find Hagrid to be much better company than you’re turning out to be,” Lucy sniffed.

“Really?” The boy sneered again. “Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”

“They’re dead,” said Lucy shortly. She didn’t feel much like going into the matter with this boy.

“Oh, sorry,” said the boy, not sounding sorry at all. “But they were our kind, weren’t they?”

“They were a witch and wizard, if that’s what you mean.”

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What’s your surname, anyway?”

But before Lucy could answer, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my dear,” and Lucy, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped off the footstool.

“Well, I’ll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose,” said the drawling boy.

Lucy was rather quiet as she ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought her (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

“What’s up?” said Hagrid.

“Nothing,” Lucy lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Lucy cheered up a bit when she found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, she said, “Hagrid, what’s Quidditch?”

“Blimey, Lucy, I keep forgetting how little you know - not knowing about Quidditch!”

“Don’t make me feel worse,” said Lucy. She told Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin’s.

“- and he said people from Muggle families shouldn’t even be allowed in -”

“You’re not from a Muggle family. If he’d known who you were - he’s grown up knowing your name if his parents are wizarding folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw you. Anyway, what does he know about it, some of the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in them in a long line of Muggles - look at your mum! Look what she had for a sister!”

“I just feel like I’ve been wanting so badly to fit in here, to be a great witch who studies really hard, but what if it’s impossible? What if I just don’t fit in?” said Lucy, earnest and upset as she stopped on the street to look up at Hagrid.

“You want to know the truth?” said Hagrid seriously. “The truth is that the boy you met just loves mocking people. Wizarding folk, wizards and witches, are good at accepting everyone - women, gay people, people of different races - we’re great at accepting everyone, except for the people unlike us in the biggest way. People who come from Muggle families.

“But that doesn’t make it right, and it doesn’t make it true. You can fit in; you can be a great witch if you set your mind to it. Never let anyone make you think differently because they don’t like things that are different. Okay?”

He looked underneath his thick eyebrows at her. At last, Lucy’s face broke into a smile.

“... Okay,” she said. “So what is Quidditch?”

“It’s our sport. Wizard sport, and yes witches do play it too. It’s like - like football in the Muggle world - everyone follows Quidditch - played up in the air on broomsticks and there’s four balls - sort of hard to explain the rules.”

“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?”

“School houses. There’s four. Everyone says Hufflepuffs are a lot of duffers, but -”

“I bet I’m in Hufflepuff,” said Lucy gloomily.

“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly. “There’s not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one.”

“Vol-, sorry - You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?”

“Years and years ago,” said Hagrid.

They bought Lucy’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps covered in silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Here, Lucy went mad. Determined to become a powerful witch, she decided she had to narrow her extra reading down to a specific point of focus, and she went for the intricacies of magic itself. Magical theory, learning, and mastery as well as potions and magical plants and creatures - those were her choices outside of school.

“I figure I’ll learn everything I need to about wizarding culture and history over time and at Hogwarts,” she told Hagrid excitedly, lifting up her gigantic pile of extra books and tottering under the weight. “But I must learn as much as possible about magic, if I’m to become a powerful witch!”

“Half that magic you couldn’t even work yet. At least half,” said Hagrid, bewildered. “You’ll need a lot more study before you get to that level.”

“But there’s no harm in starting my studies early. Right? Come on, Hagrid, they’re books to do with school. Parents usually want their kids to take an interest in that,” Lucy sighed, peeking big green bespectacled eyes out from behind the pile of books in her arms.

“Well, all right,” said Hagrid skeptically. “Just do me a favor and don’t practice anything that says it’s past first or second year, okay? We don’t want you passing out.”

Lucy also bought wizarding versions of some of her favorite hobbies while around Flourish and Blotts. She bought lots of fiction books full of wizards and witches who went on adventures that seemed fantastical even by wizarding standards. She also bought several globes of different moons and planets, and several star charts complete with stars that glowed, shimmered, and moved around in shooting formations periodically about the chart.

To her fascination, all the pictures moved. The star charts, the book covers. Even the artistic images writhed and moved around their covers as though alive, and the person-like sentient subjects waved and made personality appropriate movements and signs from the pictures, sometimes disappearing from the frame for a while altogether.

“That’s all our pictures - art, photographs. It all moves around,” said Hagrid. “Most wizards and witches can’t believe it when Muggleborns tell them everything just stays put in Muggle pictures. Very strange indeed.”

Hagrid finally put his foot down and wouldn’t let Lucy buy a solid gold cauldron (“It says pewter on your list”), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Lucy (the expensive kit, complete with crystal vials and expensive black dragonhide protective gloves), Lucy herself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Lucy’s list again.

“Just your wand left - oh yeah, and I still haven’t got you a birthday present.”

Lucy felt herself go red.

“You don’t have to -”

“I know I don’t have to. Tell you what, I’ll get your animal. Not a toad, toads went out of fashion years ago, you’d be laughed at - and I don’t like cats, they make me sneeze. I’ll get you an owl. All the kids want owls, they’re dead useful, carry your mail and everything.”

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Lucy now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. She couldn’t stop thanking Hagrid fervently.

“Don’t mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’t expect you’ve had a lot of presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now - only place for wands, Ollivanders, and you gotta have the best wand.”

A magic wand… this was what Lucy had really been looking forward to.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Lucy felt strangely as though she had entered a very strict library; she swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to her and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of her neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Lucy jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair. 

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

“Hello,” said Lucy awkwardly.

“Ah, yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Lucy Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

Mr Ollivander moved closer to Lucy. Lucy wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for Transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it - it’s really the wand that chooses the witch or wizard, of course.”

Mr Ollivander had come so close that he and Lucy were almost nose to nose. Lucy could see herself reflected in those misty eyes.

“And that’s where…”

Mr Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Lucy’s forehead with a long, white finger.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do…”

He shook his head and then, to Lucy’s relief, spotted Hagrid.

“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again… Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”

“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid.

“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?” said Mr Ollivander, suddenly stern.

“Er - yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. “I’ve still got the pieces, though,” he added brightly.

“But you don’t use them?” said Mr Ollivander sharply. 

“Oh, no, sir,” said Hagrid quickly. Lucy noticed he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

“Hmmm,” said Mr Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. “Well, now - Miss Potter. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

“Er - well, I’m right-handed,” said Lucy.

“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Lucy from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round her head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Miss Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another witch’s wand.”

Lucy suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between her nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes. 

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. “Right then, Miss Potter. Try this one. Beech wood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Lucy took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr Ollivander snatched it out of her hand almost at once.

“No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out.”

Lucy tried. And tried. She had no idea what Mr Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands mounted higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - vine and phoenix feather, ten inches, hard.”

Lucy took the soft, fibrous brown wand. She felt a sudden warmth in her fingers. She raised the wand above her head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…”

He put Lucy’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, “Curious… curious…”

“Sorry,” said Lucy, “but what’s curious?”

Mr Ollivander fixed Lucy with his pale stare.

“First, there is the meaning behind your wand wood. And I will explain why it is interesting in a moment. 

“The druids considered anything with a woody stem as a tree, and vine makes wands of such a special nature that I have been happy to continue their ancient tradition. Vine wands are among the less common types, and I have been intrigued to notice that their owners are nearly always those witches or wizards who seek a greater purpose, who have a vision beyond the ordinary and who frequently astound those who think they know them best. Vine wands seem strongly attracted by personalities with hidden depths, and I have found them more sensitive than any other when it comes to instantly detecting a prospective match. Reliable sources claim that these wands can emit magical effects upon the mere entrance into their room of a suitable owner, and I have twice observed the phenomenon in my own shop.

“Now, why is this interesting? 

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Miss Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its mate - why, its mate gave you that scar.”

Lucy swallowed.

“Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the witch, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Miss Potter… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great.”

Lucy shivered. She wasn’t sure she liked Mr Ollivander too much. The thought of doing great things should have been welcome, but somehow in this context it was just creepy and overwhelming. She paid seven gold Galleons for her wand, and Mr Ollivander bowed them from his shop.

-

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Lucy and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Lucy didn’t speak at all as they walked down the road; she didn’t even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Lucy’s lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Lucy only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped her on the shoulder.

“Got time for a bite to eat before your train leaves,” he said.

He bought Lucy a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Lucy kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

“You all right, Lucy? You’re very quiet,” said Hagrid.

Lucy wasn’t sure she could explain. She’d just had the best birthday of her life - and yet - she chewed her hamburger, trying to find the words.

“Everyone thinks I’m special,” she said at last. “Before I’ve even done anything, I mean. All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr Ollivander… but I don’t know anything about magic at all yet! How can they expect great things from me already? I’m famous and I can’t even remember what I’m famous for! I don’t know what happened when Vol-, sorry - I mean, the night my parents died.”

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows, he wore a very kind smile.

“Don’t you worry, Lucy. You’re one of the keenest kids I’ve met so far, and everyone learns fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll be just fine. Just be yourself. I know it’s hard. You’ve been singled out, and that’s always hard. But you’ll have a great time at Hogwarts - I did - still do, as a matter of fact. And after that… just think what Quirrell said. You’ve got your whole life as a witch ahead of you.”

Lucy nodded. “I meant what I said,” she added, determination forming over her features. “I want to prove myself - to myself as much as to anyone else. Those extra books on magic will be a start. There’s just so much exciting knowledge out there that I can learn… so many future options to choose from.”

“Well, luckily you’ve got a few years to figure it out,” Hagrid chuckled. “Hey, you know what you could do? Do you remember the deputy headmistress, Professor McGonagall, from your acceptance letter?”

Lucy nodded curiously.

“Write to her this summer, while you’re reading and studying! She’s usually a rather strict sort, but I think she’d like you. She loves tutoring keen young witches who ask for her help. 

“You could ask her how to practice spells and potions, or about what you’re reading, or about what you should study and what you should memorize. She’d be great for that! Ask her for study and training tips. She’s much less of a stickler for rules or a stickler for needless knowledge than one might expect, and she’s brilliant - especially with magic, but she was a Halfblood, so she could probably answer just about any question you had. She could teach you how to practice magic, and how to memorize important sections of readings, without you having to memorize the whole thing as though you’d just swallowed the textbook.”

“... I’ll do that,” said Lucy thoughtfully. “Thanks, Hagrid.”

Hagrid helped Lucy onto the train that would take her back to the Dursleys, then handed her an envelope.

“Your ticket for Hogwarts,” he said. “First of September - King’s Cross - it’s all on your ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with your owl, she knows how to find just about anyone… See you soon, Lucy.”

The train pulled out of the station. Lucy wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; she rose in her seat and pressed her nose against the window, but she blinked and Hagrid had gone.


	5. Lucy Five

_Lucy Five_

Lucy’s last month with the Dursleys in some ways wasn’t fun. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn’t shut Lucy in her cupboard, force her to do anything, or shout at her - in fact, they didn’t speak to her at all. Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Lucy in it were empty. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did become a bit depressing after a while.

Lucy kept to her room, with her new owl for company. She had decided to call her owl Hedwig, a name she had found in A History of Magic. Her school books were very interesting. She lay on her bed reading late into the night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased. It was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn’t come in to vacuum anymore, because Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night before she went to sleep, Lucy ticked off another day on the piece of paper she had pinned to the wall, counting down to September the first.

Dudley, unlike his parents, was actually friendly to Lucy, as well as very curious about her new world. He sat on the floor of her bedroom, wide-eyed, as she told him riveting stories and pieces of information from what she had already learned of the wizarding world. She waved her hands theatrically from her bed, face excited and eyes big.

Dudley, a video game fanatic, was entranced. “You’re like a fantasy game character now!” he said excitedly. “You have a specialized weapon and everything!”

Lucy blushed, pleased.

Lucy also tried to pay Dudley back for all his years of kindness with her new secret wellspring of Muggle money. They visited countless shops as she bought him even more new things than he already had. She had promised to buy Dudley whatever he wanted - as long as he never told his parents about her secret fortune. “I don’t think Muggles could take away the Potter accounts, but just in case,” she warned him.

“My lips are sealed,” he assured her.

“You never to worry about money again,” said Lucy, smiling. “That’s my thanks for all you did for me as a kid. I’ll send you money every month when we’re both adults, and if you ever have any trouble, you just let me know.”

She also wrote to Professor McGonagall through Hedwig, as Hagrid had suggested. She gave Hedwig the first letter, told Hedwig uncertainly to give it to Professor Minerva McGonagall at Hogwarts, and Hedwig had swooped away. A bit to Lucy’s surprise, in under two days Professor McGonagall had responded back and the letter did reach her back through Hedwig.

_Yes, I would be willing to tutor you. I am always willing to help new students, most especially smart young witches from a Muggle background, with anything they wish to learn. I have attached some study suggestions I have written. Write back to me this summer with any questions you have._

_Professor M. McGonagall_

Lucy’s eyes widened. Attached to the letter were at least ten full sheets of parchment paper, chock-filled with writing.

Lucy read them all and took each and every suggestion. She learned the memorization techniques Professor McGonagall had outlined, learned to look out for and memorize the important sections of each school book that Professor McGonagall had highlighted for her, and she began practicing potions and spells. She learned the fire spell first, so that she could light a magically hovering fire underneath her cauldron, the window open, and practice potions in her bedroom. After that she practiced both spells and potions at least well into the first year level, with Professor McGonagall’s help and tips. She got an early, steady foundation and head start.

She didn’t know how far ahead people from wizarding families would be, so she hoped that would be enough.

She also read through and memorized the important sections from her extra books on magical craft, magical theory, potions, and magical plants and creatures. She used that last month to cram her head full of as much training and knowledge on the art of magic itself as was possible to have.

Her history school book, A History of Magic, was the only thing that taught her anything about the culture and practices of the actual world she’d be entering - she did read entirely through and memorize all the important sections of that book as well. She got a thorough grounding on the basic outline of the wizarding world and its history, but that was about it. She couldn’t have memorized everything, she’d needed a specific point of focus, so she just hoped she could trust that she would learn enough about the wizarding world over her time inside it.

Quite frankly, she’d been more interested in the art of magical theory than in the intricacies of wizarding culture anyway.

By the end of the summer, could she regurgitate whole pages word for word? No. But she’d memorized all the vocabulary, buzzwords, and important pieces of information, as well as being well on her way to going above and beyond in actual magical practice. She felt that was more important. It was good to keep ahead, she had learned from Professor McGonagall, whose lessons would stick with her on her road to becoming an accomplished witch. She finally felt like she was learning skills and on her way to graduation and one of those fanciful careers, so it was all quite exciting. Lucy began taking her wand around with her in her pocket everywhere she went - she needed it even for potions, so she made sure to keep it handy.

Professor McGonagall’s replies had gotten longer and warmer by the end of the summer. She said that Lucy asked bright questions and Lucy felt that Professor McGonagall had become rather fond of her.

On the last day of August she thought she’d better speak to her aunt and uncle about getting to King’s Cross station the next day, so she went down into the living room where they were watching a quiz show on television. She cleared her throat to let them know she was there. Only Dudley looked directly at her.

“Er - Uncle Vernon?”

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening.

“Er - I need to be at King’s Cross Station tomorrow to - to go to Hogwarts.”

Uncle Vernon grunted again.

“Would it be all right if you gave me a lift?”

Grunt. Lucy supposed that meant yes.

“Thank you.”

She was about to go back upstairs when Uncle Vernon actually spoke.

“Funny way to get to a witch’s school, the train. Magic carpets all got punctures, have they?”

Lucy didn’t say anything.

“Where is this school, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Lucy, realizing this for the first time. She pulled the ticket Hagrid had given her out of her pocket.

“I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven o’clock,” she read.

Her aunt and uncle stared.

“Platform what?”

“Nine and three-quarters.”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” said Uncle Vernon. “There is no platform nine and three-quarters.”

“It’s on my ticket.”

“Barking,” said Uncle Vernon, “howling mad, the lot of them. You’ll see. You just wait. All right, we’ll take you to King’s Cross. We’re going up to London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn’t bother.”

“Why are you going to London?” Lucy asked, trying to keep things friendly.

“I’m going to the hospital,” growled Uncle Vernon. “I’m having that ruddy tail removed.”

-

Lucy woke at five o’clock the next morning and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. She got up and pulled on her clothes because she didn’t want to walk into the station in her witch’s robes - she’d change into her uniform on the train. She checked her Hogwarts list yet again to make sure she had everything she needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then paced her bedroom, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two hours later, Lucy’s huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into the Dursleys’ car, Dudley had been seated next to Lucy, and they had set off.

They reached King’s Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Lucy’s trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for her. Lucy thought this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face.

“Well, there you are, girl. Platform nine - platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don’t seem to have built it yet, do they?”

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all.

“Have a good term,” said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left without another word. Lucy turned and saw the Dursleys’ car drive away. Her aunt and uncle were laughing, her cousin with his worried face pressed against the back window. Lucy’s mouth went rather dry. What on earth was she going to do? She was starting to attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig. She’d have to ask someone.

She stopped a passing guard, but didn’t dare mention platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts and when Lucy couldn’t even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to get annoyed, as though Lucy was being stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Lucy asked for the train at eleven o’clock, but the guard said there wasn’t one. In the end the guard strode away, muttering about time wasters. Lucy was now trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over the arrivals board, she had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and she had no idea how to do it; she was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk she could hardly lift, a pocket full of witch’s gold, a magic wand, and a large owl.

Hagrid must have forgotten to tell her something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. She wondered if she should get out her wand and start tapping the ticket inspector’s stand between platforms nine and ten. 

At that moment, a group of people passed just behind her and she caught a few words of what they were saying.

“- packed with Muggles, of course -”

Lucy swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Lucy’s in front of him - and they had an owl.

Heart hammering, Lucy pushed her cart after them. They stopped and so did she, just near enough to hear what they were saying.

“Now, what’s the platform number?” said the boys’ mother.

“Nine and three quarters!” piped a small girl, also red-headed, who was holding her hand, “Mum, can’t I go…”

“You’re not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet. All right, Percy, you go first.”

What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten. Lucy watched, careful not to blink in case she missed it - but just as the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished.

“Fred, you next,” said the plump woman.

“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly, woman, you call yourself our mother? Can’t you tell I’m George?”

“Sorry, George, dear.”

“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he went. His twin called after him to hurry up, and he must have done so, because a second later, he had gone - but how had he done it?

Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier - he was almost there - and then, quite suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere.

There was nothing else for it.

“Excuse me,” Lucy said to the plump woman.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “First time at Hogwarts? Ron’s new, too.”

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

“Yes,” said Lucy. “The thing is - the thing is, I don’t know how to -”

“How to get onto the platform?” she said kindly, and Lucy nodded.

“Not to worry,” she said. “All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared you’ll crash into it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you’re nervous. Go on, go now before Ron.”

“Er - okay,” said Lucy.

She pushed her trolley around and stared at the barrier. It looked very solid.

She started to walk toward it. People jostled her on their way to platforms nine and ten. Lucy walked more quickly. She was going to smash right into that barrier and then she’d be in trouble - leaning forward on her cart, she broke into a heavy run - the barrier was coming nearer and nearer - she wouldn’t be able to stop - the cart was out of control - she was a foot away - she closed her eyes ready for the crash -

It didn’t come… she kept on running… she opened her eyes.

A scarlet steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven o’clock. Lucy looked behind her and saw a wrought iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it. She had done it.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. First years could even be seen through the windows, racing each other excitedly down the train corridor. Lucy pushed her cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat. She passed a round-faced boy who was saying, “Gran, I’ve lost my toad again.”

“Oh, Neville,” she heard the old woman sigh.

A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd.

“Give us a look, Lee, go on.”

The boy lifted lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg.

Lucy pressed on through the crowd until she found an empty compartment near the end of the train.

And this is where we pause. Because this moment is where Lucy Potter - vine wand, button-up blouses with high-waisted skirts and long loose polka dotted shirts, messy braided buns and side braids, slim rectangular silver spectacles, of fiction books, studies of the stars, long colorful hung sheets, book ends, and stick-on fluorescent stars, cold and prim but also soft and gentle with shining eyes - this moment is where Lucy Potter truly diverges from her three fellows completely.


End file.
